i fell into a ghost (could it be my own)
by TenTenD
Summary: ...But who had ever heard of a Dornishwoman in the icy North? Elia Martell weds Brandon Stark and much is changed and more remains the same.
1. Chapter 1

Rhaella shook her head, just a hint of sadness upon her features. "It seems not meant to be, my friend. He will not relent and I've no more words to try persuading him. Your Elia is a charming young woman. It will be no hardship for her to pick and choose of her many suitors."

"Her many suitors," the Dornish Princess echoed, ending her words upon a sigh. "I deeply regret bringing Oberyn along now. All he does is turn his sister against every man they meet."

"'Tis youth at play," the Queen soothed. "There are yet many choices."

But not the Lannister, the Targaryens neither and none of the houses of the Reach would do. The Ironborn were much too rough, some had none to offer for marriage. "My daughter is a good girl. I simply wish to find a worthy spouse for her."

"And so you shall," she was assured by Rhaella. "Have patience."

The only suitable, and barely that, house left she could truly consider was the ancient House Stark. But who had ever heard of a Dornishwoman in the icy North?

* * *

Lyarra sent a doubtful look to Maester Walys. "But still, you are talking of a house so far removed from our own. Would it not be wiser to strengthen our relationships with those around us?" Her intervention was met with a glare from her husband's Southron adviser.

"Not at all, Lady Stark. We are all part of the Seven Kingdoms here; it simply won't do for the North to remain isolated forever. My lord, your lady wife means well, but upon this matter she is wrong. Only just take into consideration the advantages of such a match."

"Some truths simply cannot be denied," Rickard murmured, still deep in thought. Those words he followed with, "In this I agree fully with the good maester. l value your opinion, my lady, but 'tis not viable."

"I beg that you would reconsider," Lyarra tried again. "Wed him to a Ryswell or a Fenn, or any other maiden of the North."

"I have considered, lady wife, and this is my decision. Brandon shall wed the Princess." And that was final. Recognising her defeat, Lyarra acquiesced in the end, seeing no other alternative.

But her heart was not at peace.

* * *

"This is not fair," Elia cried out as her mother's announcement finally sank in. "I do not wish to wed a child." She crossed her arms over her chest and looked at Oberyn for support.

Understanding the plea, her brother spoke for her as well. "Mother, the North is much too far away. And it's cold besides. Do you want your precious daughter to die of a head cold?"

"Does my precious daughter wish to die unwedded?" the princess shot back at her youngest children. "I have given you both the means and the time to search for a suitable husband. And it was my hope you would not need me to intervene on your behalf."

"Not one of them was suitable," the young Elia offered.

The heat of her mother's glare scalded her. "Why? Because your brother thought so?"

"I would never–" Oberyn tried to cut in, but was stopped before he could say another word.

"Nay, my dearest daughter. It was by choice that you have refused all suitable candidates. Since you have decided on your own, 'tis right you bear the consequences. And I shall see your properly wedded."

* * *

Rhaegar looked at the approaching woman, his first instinct that of taking a step back noticing the cloud of gloom that accompanied her. There was, however, nowhere to retreat to. Thus, he kept his previous position, forcing his whole frame into a state of rigidity.

"Your Grace," Princess Elia greeted, looking at him through what seemed to be a shroud of disappointment. "Why?" And in that why was concentrated a wealth of questions, he supposed.

The intensity of her stare robbed him of speech a moment longer, yet he found himself soon enough. "The King is against the match."

Her lips curled downwards. "'Tis not a good thing to lie, Your Grace. If I am to be turned away, I would at least know why. I only need the truth."

And so they came to the heart of the matter. "Very well, then the truth I shall give to you." He took a step towards her and Elia retreated, on instinct, he was more than sure. He leaned in slightly, "Why do you wish to wed me?"

Surprise played on her features. "To answer my question with a question–" she began, but was swiftly cut off.

"Do you love me?" And since she had demanded the truth, he expected no less of her. It was to her credit that she considered the matter before answering. Ultimately, the Dornish Princess shook her head.

"I knew not you held such ideals," was her answer.

* * *

Lyanna stifled a wild giggle and urged her brother to cover his mouth. "Stop making those noises, stupid. They'll catch us," she hisses at the strange sound that came from the younger boy. "I want to hear, Benjen."

"What's so interesting?" he whispered back, still unconvinced.

Shaking her head, his sister gave a shallow snort. "Stupid." That seemed didn't to have been the appropriate answer, but voices could be heard and despite himself, Benjen found that he was curious as to what all the fuss was about.

The youngest children of Lord Stark, pressed themselves against the door and tried to catch every sound. They did not fail in that.

From inside their father's solar, the distinct voice of their brother complained as loudly as possible, without yelling, "But she's Dornish! Why do I have to wed her?"

His reason was dismissed by their father. "She is a Princess of Dorne. It is a good match. And she comes with an impressive dowry."

That prompted their brother into silence. Lyanna briefly wondered if he had accepted his fate, but Brandon quickly cured her of the belief by wording out the following, "She's old." That had been the least expected reason her brother could have given. She stopped herself from bursting into laughter, just barely.

"Brandon, you shall wed Elia Martell even if I have to drag you to the godswood myself."And that settled matters.

"Is she really old?" Benjen questioned in a whisper. "That Elia, is she?"

"Ancient," Lyanna answered with a grin.

* * *

The wheelhouse drew to an abrupt halt, nearly sending poor Elia off her seat. Had Oberyn not had the presence of mind to avert the disaster, his sister's knees would have been, painfully, acquainted with the floorboards.

The auspicious beginning aside, Elia had more to protest to the North than a bout of ill-luck. It was cold, it was snowing and she was decidedly unimpressed with the number of times they'd had to stop on the road because of ice, snow storms and whatnot.

"There is still time to change your mind, mother," Oberyn ventured in the oppressive silence that dominated the space. "Quickly, before the door is opened."

His attempt ended in a predictable failure when the ruling Princess stood to her feet and motioned for them to do the same. "Do not make me command it."

* * *

Dislike was not the right word for what Brandon felt when he clapped eyes upon his Dornish bride and her entourage of dark skinned companions. Nay, indeed, dislike was too mild a word for such a strange creature as the one before him. The black of her eyes burned, seared through him. Her dark brow – exotic, foreign, frightening.

His mother stepped forth along with his Lord father to greet their guests. Brandon watched as the bows were made. The young woman, on her own brother's arm, seemed to steel herself as his mother wrapped her arms around her welcomingly.

It took hearing his name to make him move. Brandon forced himself to take a step towards his bride, then another and another. "Your Grace," he gritted through nearly clenched teeth.

"My lord," she murmured back, the curious lilt of her voice out of place.

"Come, let us introduce you to the rest of our children," Rickard Stark urged.

And then her attention slid away from him, thankfully.

* * *

There was the babe of the crowd, a boy of five, small and chubby, with blue eyes and a laughing face. His name was Benjen. The sole daughter was called Lyanna. Something almost endearing about that one, Elia thought as she watched her glare at her oldest brother. Then there was a boy older than Lyanna, but younger than Brandon. Ned they called him. Those three had seemed more intrigued by her arrival and less likely to try murdering her in her sleep than her future husband.

At least she'd been given the warmest rooms in Winterfell. Small mercies. The door could be barred.

Elia spied her mirror image in the looking glass, dark ringlets in disarray. If her face betrayed her lack of easiness, she couldn't tell. Elia thought not.

And she had little time to contemplate such matters for insistent knocking at then door pulled her away. Elia called for whoever it was to enter.

Surprisingly, it was the Stark girl. She carried in her hands a curious object, a doll patched many times over. The child held the toy forward. "You should have this." Simple words, simple intentions. Elia reached out for the toy with something like indulgence. She hadn't had younger siblings like that. Oberyn didn't count. "Are you scared?"

"Of what?" she questioned, clutching the doll.

"Of all this. I would be." Perhaps they could help one another out. Elia sat down on the edge of the bed. "My brother is stupid. I think you're nice." Perhaps for having peeled an apple for her during their meal. Children were so easily pleased.

"I think you are nice as well. I shall enjoy being your good-sister."

* * *

"Don't be such a child," Elia chided, meeting Brandon's glare with a composed, cold stare of her own. "What exactly did you expect when wedding was mentioned?" She raised her chin defiantly, reminding herself that despite whatever lack might be found with her personally, she was still a daughter of Dorne from the line of the warrior-queen Nymeria. What were the Starks to that?

Brandon snorted, but refused to offer any answer. Instead he tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for the Septon the Dornish had firmly insisted upon to make his way across the frozen ground. The old man looked ready to fall over.

"Is that how Stark men understand to honour their wives?" she could not help but throw the barb his way.

It took a moment, but he turned away from the sight of the Septon and fixed her with a chilling look. Elia couldn't tell if he was doing it on purpose or if it was simply the way he looked. "What have you done worth honouring, Your Grace?" But he was impertinent, the child. Her disapproving look went by ignored.

"I am a princess of Dorne," Elia managed to get out, purposefully speaking slowly, as if to convey to him she found him a silly boy. Instead of producing upon him the effect she might have hoped for, Elia observed only that his face went ashen – there was no trace of reverence to be found upon his features.

"Then I humbly beg of Your Grace to find a worthier spouse than I." Why that boy would feel insulted by her merely stating a fact, she could not comprehend.

But the Septon had finally reached them and he gazed at her expectantly.

"Let us proceed," Lord Stark spoke.

* * *

Lyarra begged a moment of her son's time as his new bride was led away by her brother. "I wish but a few brief words with you," the mother assured that Brandon could simply not misinterpret. There was little choice but to follow her. Once they were safely tucked away in a corner, Lyarra placed a hand upon his shoulder. "I did not raise you to act as a spiteful child, Brandon, even if you were given cause. So why is it that you treat your bride discourteously?"

She was exaggerating matters. Of course, her son wasn't being hostile, so much as cold. "Well?"

"Why are you taking her side? She insulted me." His defence failed to raise any sympathy from his mother, at least outwardly. "Couldn't you convince father to search for some other bride?"

His mother sighed. "Such matters are better left undisturbed. Elia Martell is your wife, now. I expect that you extend to her every courtesy you would extend to me. How can you expect any fondness to grow otherwise, my boy?"

"I don't want her affection," was the reply which came upon his lips.

At that, the Lady of the house gave him a look filled with warning. "Not now, perhaps. But she won't stop being your wife. Not in one year, or five or ten. And you will want some sort of bond. No one demands that you profess to sentiments you do not hold. But civility is attainable and therefore I expect you shan't shame me by being less than proper."

He did not like it one bit. But young as he was, he did understand the reasoning. "I shall try my best."

"That is all I can ask of you."

* * *

 _*The age difference between Elia and Brandon is five years._


	2. Chapter 2

Elia watched him warily, drawing the blanket over her bared form. He did not look angry. Nay, not even bothered. What had she expected, though? He was just a boy. Laughter bubbled upon her lips but she swallowed it, her throat working almost convulsively.

He moved off the bed, seemingly unbothered by the chill of the night. Tall for his age, he would undoubtedly grow into a fine young man. Handsome too, if one paid attention to his features long enough. Brandon ripped away at the blankets, pushing them out of the way almost savagely.

It took Elia a moment to understand what he was after. She blanched and moved about quietly. She'd been counting on his age and lack of knowledge to protect her.

Dragging the sheet near the burning candles, Brandon held them up for inspection. A snort left his lips a moment later. He half turned towards her. "There is a knife under the bed." Not waiting for her answer, he threw what he'd been holding back at her.

Strange shadows played on his face. Elia left her position on the bed and searched underneath the bed. Indeed, there was a small knife hidden there. She climbed to her feet in time to see Brandon pulling of a tunic.

Shame had never plagued her before. But as her young husband looked at her with a critical, almost disapproving eye, Elia felt herself flush. Her hand trembled holding the blade.

He took the knife from her hand and made a small cut upon his arm.

A few drops of blood trickled down.

* * *

He thought about it, asking for a name. It should have felt right. It was only fair that he knew. But Brandon couldn't bring himself to do it. He looked at the pale, trembling creature and whatever venomous comments had gathered on the tip of his tongue dispersed. Not because he felt charitable, or because he had forgiven the trespass.

Fear had sealed his mouth shut. She might've named a lord of her mother's court or she might have recounted more than one lover. It was enough that he knew of it. There seemed hardly any need to make what should have a joyous occasion miserable for those convinced that the wedding had been for the best.

Instead, he helped her arrange the sheets once more and climbed into bed, determined to get some sleep despite the unfamiliarity of her presence. Just as she closed his eyes, Elia Martell spoke.

"My lord, I am thankful for," she trailed off when he opened his eyes and raised his weight on his elbows.

"The best gratitude at this point, Your Grace, is silence," he spoke back softly, suddenly exhausted.

* * *

He had been out riding. Brandon had always been an early riser and given the current climate his marriage found itself in, he hadn't wanted to remain enclosed with his bride, albeit sleeping as she'd been, in the room. He needed time to think. He needed to make up his mind on what he wanted to make of it all.

Preoccupied with such thoughts, he went about tethering his horse mechanically, then stripping it of saddle and coverlet. The process ought to have calmed him. It usually did. Yet, at a time when he needed it most, it seemed that such an outcome was eluding him.

Instead, he was soon found by his sister. Lyanna had approached him without much care, a smile upon her face. The whole world insisted to be joyful as if to spite him. Moreover, his dearest sister was carrying an armful of roses. "Pick one for my good-sister," she said. "Just one though. The rest are mine." It was good that at least her childish selfishness was still about her, else he might have been tempted to think her a snark in disguise.

One blue rose in his hand later, and Brandon was contemplating crushing it as soon as Lyanna was out of sight.

* * *

Her lord husband made good a charade of seeming pleased before his people. Elia, for her part, smiled at the appropriate times and murmured her acknowledgements, habit kicking in. She had been raised to it.

Later, Lady Lyarra took her aside, her countenance soft and motherly, although, with the age difference between them they fell into an uncomfortable category that could neither become a bond between sister, nor a relationship between mother figure and daughter.

"I shan't pretend I know of your sorrows," the older woman had begun, "but if you cast such a face for yourself, others are bound to notice. There will he whispers and rumours. It would be a pity." Elia thought about asking if she knew, the suspicion burrowing its way into her heart.

A half smile flickered upon Lyarra's face. "When a woman marries, it is her duty to lock away everything that came before."

"Men don't have to." How unfair. Elia's eyes flash with displeasure. "Why should I be defined by the words of any man?"

Silence fell between them, stretching for a heartbeat, two, three. "Because, ultimately, the one who fights against the entire world is the one who is doomed. Those of us who cannot have love, must strive for wisdom." It was not exactly kinship that was being born. But there was a sense of understanding between them. "That said, never forget that I am a mother first and foremost."

Wisdom. Elia watched the matriarch walk away with an easy step and wondered when, if ever, she would have that.

* * *

"I do not ride," Elia told her spouse with all the seriousness she was capable of, trying to ignore her good-sister's pout and the shocked look on her younger, but not youngest, good-brother's face.

"What do you mean, you do not ride?" the youngest of the lot questioned, small hands fisting into the thick skirts which enveloped half. "The ladies of Winterfell are all excellent riders."

"Alas, child, this lady is of Dorne and her skills with horses are abysmal." The admission felt strange; more so divulging it before strangers than just the words. Elia had never been the strongest of individuals. Her health had always been a tad too poor for that. Consequently riding horses had been frowned upon and generally a solution saved for last. Thus her skills were unpolished, to put it politely.

"Duty is duty, lady wife," Brandon cut in. He looked rather amused. For some reason it seemed to her that the sun had come out after a year of rain. "Lack of knowledge shan't save you. Up you go." He urged her to step on the stool. Elia did know how to mount so she did that without being told. "I daresay you will be altogether easier to handle than my sister."

He had likely not forgiven, or forgotten, but he was willing to try. Elia should think it the epitome of crassness not to response in a like manner. "I daresay my lord husband does not know me well enough to make such pronouncements."


End file.
